


The Adventure Of The Stolen Bump (1900)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [184]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Forgery, Framing Story, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Rope Bondage, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 21:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11654709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: For once, the person needing Sherlock's help does not (or cannot) ask for it. But they get it anyway – and they are not the only ones.





	The Adventure Of The Stolen Bump (1900)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majesticduxk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesticduxk/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the Conk-Singleton forgery case'. At the time this story was set, the Bank of England had a near-monopoly on the printing of notes, i.e. no new banks were allowed to do this, but banks which had been up prior to the change of law were allowed to continue. The last such, Fox, Fowlet & Company of Somerset, closed in 1921. At the time that this story is set, five pounds was the smallest note then in circulation; notes existed in various denominations up to £1,000, but £50 was the largest in common use (not that I ever saw any!). The largest coin was the sovereign, effectively the pound coin.

Many and varied were the people who called at Baker Street, requesting our services. Some, as I have said before, appeared to believe that a personal appeal would make Sherlock more likely to take their case, which was actually not so. He read every pleading letter sent to him, and weighed the requests with the same impartial judgement that he reserved for those who came to our door (indeed, some people's personal approaches had quite the opposite effect to the one they had likely intended!). However, on this cold March morning in the year nineteen hundred, a person arrived who was certain of a warm reception – even if we had thought him to be several hundred miles away. It was none other than Sergeant Valiant Henriksen, nephew of our friend the chief inspector, and whose huge bulk we not seen since he had embroiled us in the Addleton Tragedy, some six years past.

“I am so relieved to have caught you both!”, he said, rubbing his hands together against the cold weather. “This is terrible!”

“What is?” Sherlock asked, sitting down. The sergeant did likewise, though it took him longer to fold all those long limbs into our fireside chair, built only for regular-sized _homo sapiens._

“Uncle Vic”, he said glumly. “He is about to be ruined. And there is absolutely nothing that I can do to stop it!”

+~+~+

“I owe this to young Peterson”, he began. “He was a constable alongside me when we met at Reigate all those years ago, and he moved to London just before I went north. We kept in touch however, and he alerted me to what was going on. My uncle said nothing about it in his letters.”

“Go on”, Sherlock urged, frowning deeply.

“Around the start of the year, several London stations were working on a major case”, the sergeant went on. “Peterson's station was not one of them, but he was seconded to work at Mirabelle Street. He was warned not to discuss it with anyone, but when this all went down, he sent me a telegram.”

I said nothing. Such practices were common in any large organization; indeed, probably the best way to ensure that something became widely known was to insist on it being kept a secret. Those at the top never learnt.

“At the end of last year, forged bank-notes began appearing in parts of the East End”, the sergeant continued. “Nothing unusual perhaps, but these were high quality forgeries, all Bank of England five- and ten-pound notes. Normally criminals go for the larger denominations like fifties, which is how we tend to find them. The first one was only spotted because a pawnbroker in Stepney was a coin-collector on the side, and he knew what to look for. Someone has printed loads of the things, and the boys thought they had it easy when they nabbed a set of plates during a raid on a drugs den in Whitechapel. The name on the back was 'Conk-Singleton'.”

“I am guessing that it was not that easy”, Sherlock smiled. Our visitor nodded.

“The only person of that name turned out to be a seventy-year-old collector of rare stamps who lives in Muswell Hill, half-blind, slightly deaf and with one leg!” the sergeant snorted. “He nearly suffered a nervous breakdown when they questioned him about it. No, he clearly had nothing to do with the whole thing. It was what happened next that was so awful.”

“What?” I asked.

“They had another lead, and were building up to a raid on a warehouse on the docks”, the sergeant said. “There is a family of known criminals down there, the Carrs, and they were sure that they were behind the whole thing. One day Uncle Vic was travelling back from Buckinghamshire to his office, and he got attacked on leaving the train at Paddington. There were four of them, and they managed to get away with his brief-case. The raid on the warehouse fell flat, but there had clearly been something going on in there. Now everyone is saying that he faked the attack, and that he tipped off the Carrs for a cut.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” I said testily. “Who would be dumb enough to believe that?”

“It gets worse”, the sergeant said morosely. “Peterson told me someone went and leaked the story to the _“Daily Chronicle”_ , that lame excuse for a newspaper. They wanted to publish, but the force obtained an injunction against them. However, an appeal is being heard on Friday, and he thinks that they will lose. Perfect timing; it will be all over the weekend papers! And the most damnable thing of all? Father was just about to be bumped!”

“What?” I asked, confused.

“A last-minute promotion, so that the recipient can retire on a better pension”, Sherlock explained. “To superintendent, in his case.”

The sergeant nodded. 

“He had less than six months left”, he said glumly. “I can't think who would want to destroy him like this, but someone talked to that God-forsaken rag!”

“The Hydra”, Sherlock mused. “As fast as one suppresses one version of the story, two more appear to take its place. And we have but three days. It will not be easy.”

+~+~+

Sergeant Henriksen had been able to come to us thanks to the generosity of his own Inspector who, whilst unable to grant him sudden leave, had found some police documents that had to be immediately couriered to the capital on the Glasgow sleeper. Unfortunately that meant that he would have to return to his new base in Kendal the very next day, but Sherlock promised to keep him informed of any developments.

“We have precious little to go on”, he said once our friend had left (Sherlock had generously given him a card for his brother Gaylord's latest hotel which, I suspected, might be a cut above what the Westmorlander might have been used to). “Let us make use of what we have. Someone wishes to discredit Henriksen, and force him to retire early. Therefore we are looking at someone who would benefit from his leaving now rather than in six months' time.”

“We are going to see Sergeant Baldur?” I guessed.

“Correct”, he smiled. “I wish to know if there is anyone for whom our friend's forced early departure would be of interest. That may even be the person who has started these vile calumnies.”

“What about the attack?” I asked.

“That worries me”, Sherlock said. “Not just for the safety of our friend, but because of what it implies.”

“Which is?” I asked. He turned to me.

“Only someone within the police service would have known that he was carrying case files that day”, he said grimly. “It is not the sort of thing that officers carry around as a matter of course, for obvious reasons. And if a town boy like Henriksen has gone as far afield as Buckinghamshire, then I will wager that it was on a false lead. No, we have another bent copper, and given that the attack was by four people, most likely more than one!”

+~+~+

Sergeant Baldur duly welcomed us to the station. His was not one of those who had been seconded to the forgery case, but of course he had heard rumours. I thought it a little odd that he had not known of poor Henriksen's involvement; they were friends, and surely the older man would have confided in him?

“I cannot believe that they are trying to force the old man out!” he said angrily. “I thought that we were all supposed to be the side of justice!”

“You can help us with one aspect of this case”, Sherlock said. “I think that this case hinges first on whether there is a vacancy at the superintendent level coming up in the near future."

The sergeant looked grave.

"Yes", he said. "They appointed a new superintendent last year. A fellow called John-Claude Drenner; they drafted him in from Essex, if I remember. He's been pretty much useless, so they are quietly going to move him back down. Henriksen's retirement would have given them the perfect excuse; promote him for six months, and use that time to hunt around for someone permanent. Word is they are desperate to get ride of John-Claude; his nickname is Drenner the Drinker!"

I smiled at that.

"That six months may not seem long", Sherlock said, "but I think that it is key to the whole case. As you said, it will give the Metropolitan Police Service plenty of time to hunt out someone from another force - but if Henriksen is even under suspicion, then in their desperation they will be forced to look 'in house' for someone. Who might that be, do you think?"

“First, Giles Montacute, works out of Goodge Street”, the sergeant began. “He would probably be quite good at it, as he loathes walking the streets but loves the paperwork. Takes all sorts, I suppose. He is what you would call a safe pair of hands, but his High Church attitude - everyone calls him 'the Blessed St. Giles!' - can rub some people up the wrong way. And he is getting on a bit, so he may be thinking that he has not got many chances left.”

“Motive”, I muttered sagely, ignoring the eye-roll from the wiseacre next to me.

“Then there is that god-awful Adrian Wallis up in Harrow”, the sergeant sighed. “Your typical alpha male; 'Hadrian's Wall' is _his_ nickname, because he's thick and immovable, plus he thinks more public executions Roman-style would deter the criminal classes. Possibly a good choice amongst coppers if those at the top wanted to be seen to be Taking Positive Action! But he is also very vocal about a woman's place being in the home, and there are one or two on the selection committee who would take against that, especially in this day and age.”

“Cannot think why that would be the case", I muttered. Sherlock shook his head at me, but smiled.

“And there is also Jason Pollock over at Paddington. His nickname is... well, rhyming slang, gents. A real high-flyer, but a bit too slick for my liking. He made sergeant in record time, and was almost as quick to reach inspector. One or two family members in the force from what I hear, so that probably helped. He is barely forty, and the youngest of the three, so he has got plenty of time left. I half expected him to get the last promotion he went for, but it seemed that that lazy blighter Ormerod had better connections. Or those rumours about him sleeping with one of the wives of the committee members were true after all!”

“Interesting”, Sherlock said. “Of course one of them stands out as the most obvious candidate. Unfortunately I rather think I shall have to call on the services of an expert in this instance, but needs must.”

Not the lounge-lizard, I prayed silently. His prolonged absence from Baker Street was one of the happy parts of my life just then.

+~+~+

Sherlock called at the nearest telegraph office to summon help from whomever, then we set off to Henriksen's house. The burly policeman looked shattered from recent events, I thought, and he still bore some of the marks of the attack. He took us out into the garden, and we all sat down.

“I am doing what I can, my friend”, Sherlock said. “Though I was a little surprised that I not only had to hear of your troubles from your nephew rather than your good self, and that you did not even confide in our mutual friend Sergeant Baldur.”

“Val came down to see you?” he asked, surprised.

“He is concerned”, Sherlock said. “Unfortunately your being under investigation means that he could not see you on this occasion. Tell me, what did they offer you?”

The chief-inspector baulked.

“What do you mean?” he asked warily.

“Come, Victor”, Sherlock said firmly, “I know that you would have come to me to help clear your name had someone not warned you to desist. An offer was made, and you accepted it. What was it?”

I thought for a moment that our friend was going to continue to deny it, but then he visibly slumped. 

“Resignation once the case breaks, retirement without demotion, and the promise of a review some months down the line that would clear my name”, he said grimly.

“They bought you off!” I said angrily.

“Doctor, I have a family to support”, he said testily, "in and out of the force. You know how the police service works. If my name is tarnished, so will theirs be.”

“And I suppose that they also threatened retaliation against your brother and nephew if you turned down their 'generous offer'”, Sherlock said. “To think that these are the people responsible for law and order in this city! I will not allow it!”

“You cannot stop rumour”, Henriksen said with a grimace. “And no matter what you do, people will talk.”

“Then we shall give them something to talk about”, Sherlock said firmly. “Question. What documents were you carrying when you were attacked.”

“Nothing relating to the Conk-Singleton case”, the policeman said. “I did go to Marlow to interview a man who claimed to know something, from a tip-off at one of the other stations. He said he would only speak to me, but when I got there, it was a false address.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before continuing. 

“Why were _you_ put in charge of such a major case?”

“What?” Henriksen looked surprised. I was too; the question seemed a little insulting.

“Something of that magnitude usually attracts a superintendent at the very least”, Sherlock said. “If not a chief-superintendent. Yet they put you in charge. Why?”

“Because they did not want to draw attention to the investigation”, he said.

“Epic fail there!” I muttered. Sherlock shot me a look.

“Victor”, he said, not looking at the chief-inspector, “Is there anything else you would like to tell us?”

There was a short but definite pause.

“Not that I can think of”, he said, a little too defensively.

“Very well”, Sherlock said, standing up. “Doubtless we will inform you of any developments. Good day.”

He seemed suddenly formal with someone that we knew so well. I hurried after him as we left.

“What was all that about?” I asked curiously.

“He lied to us”, Sherlock said. “He knows a lot more than he admitted. And he is prepared to sacrifice himself for his family. Unfortunately I am not going to let him.”

“Unfortunately?” He looked coolly at me.

“For the men responsible”, he said grimly, and I shivered at that cruel tone that had suddenly appeared in his voice. “I will ruin them!”

+~+~+

I knew Sherlock well enough to realize that this case was weighing heavy on him. Which meant, inevitably, that there would have to be sacrifices on my behalf. Honestly, the things that I did for love!

We dined that evening in a sombre quiet, and I took the unusual step of taking a shower before bedtime, claiming that I felt a little tired from the day's efforts. Fortunately there was a little-used door between the bathroom and Sherlock's bedroom, and I slipped quietly into the latter, undressed myself and awaited him. I doubted that he would be long, and indeed barely fifteen minutes later he came through the door.

And stopped stone dead. I was laid out naked on the bed, with all our various sex toys scattered around within reach. He looked at me in surprise.

“You need this tonight”, I said quietly. “Free rein. Whatever you want, Sherlock. I am your mate, and I want to make you happy.”

For once I actually thought he might cry, but he bit back the tears and came over to me, undoing his shirt as he walked.

“Is this a good idea?” he said, sounding uncertain. “This case.... I am feeling very raw, John. I may be rough.....”

“I do not care!” I said firmly. “I love you, and if you are unhappy, then I am unhappy. Take me, my beloved. Any which way you want.”

He seemed to pull himself together, and finished undressing. Then he gestured for me to turn onto my front and stretch out my limbs, which he tied to the four corners of the bed. I was totally at his mercy, and he clambered silently on top of me before positioning himself at my entrance.

“You prepared yourself”, he whispered.

“I did not want to wait”, I whispered back.

He eased slowly inside me, barely moving until he was fully sheathed, and he held himself there for what seemed like an eternity. Normally I would have begged him to move at that point, but tonight I held myself back. Tonight was just for Sherlock. Just for the man I loved.

Finally he began to move, slowly at first, but gradually picking up speed, until he was hammering into me whilst his hand reached out and began to jerk me off. I whined, and he seemed to freeze.

“John?”

“For God's sake, keep going!” I ground out.

He picked up the pace again, and without warming he was coming inside of me. I myself came just seconds later, my body shuddering beneath his pinioned weight as he sank down on top of me. This was where I would normally ask to be untied, but not tonight. Tonight I was Sherlock's, to do with what he willed. And despite the wet patch beneath me and my aching overstretched limbs, I was loving it. His happiness was everything to me.

+~+~+

I woke to find myself untied and with everything cleared away, no evidence of the passion of the night before - well, apart from my still-aching muscles, which protested violently every time that I moved. Sherlock must have heard my awakening, for moments later he was in the room with me, a steaming coffee placed on the bedside table whilst he massaged some life back into my shattered forty-eight-year-old body, whispering quiet thanks and praises as he did so. I smiled goofily up at him, and wondered if I would be capable of anything complicated that day. Like actually moving.

“I received two telegrams this morning”, he told me, once I was able to sit up (just) and drink a very heavy cup of tea. 

“Who are they from?” I asked, leaning into him. It was odd, my being naked whilst he was almost fully-clothed, but just now I did not care.

“This is from Bacchus”, he said, waving one of them. “I wished to know certain things about the work colleagues of one of our candidates for Henriksen's job.”

“You think that one of them was behind it?” I asked.

“Of course”, he said. “Was it not obvious?”

“No!” I protested. “How?”

“One of the reasons behind Henriksen's reluctance to talk was the weapon used against him”, Sherlock said. “People may think the police truncheon is just a stout stick, but it leaves a distinctive mark to those who know. He knew that at least one of his own was involved. Hence the threat to his brother and son rang true.”

“But that would be stupid!” I protested. “A doctor examining the injuries would report the matter.”

“Not a police doctor”, Sherlock said flatly. “This goes higher up than I thought. Someone of high office, capable of organizing this framing of a good officer. Unfortunately for them, their best-laid plans are about to go awra'.”

“Who was the other telegram from?” I asked. He sipped his coffee, and sighed happily.

“Mr. Marcus Crowley”, he said. “I decided that it was time to cash in one of my two favours. I rather think that today is going to be.... interesting!”

I glanced at him, then winced. Moving my head quickly was not yet advisable, apparently.

+~+~+

We took a cab to Sergeant Baldur's station – a very, very painful ride, despite the unguent that my friend had applied to me before leaving - and Sherlock went in briefly before returning alone and telling the cab-driver to take us to Henriksen's house. Which was a long distance away, worse luck. The chief-inspector was tending some plants on the front garden and was reluctant to come with us, but Sherlock eventually persuaded him. The driver took us to a quiet back-street in Limehouse that was, frankly, unwelcoming, at least judging from the speed at which he took off once he had been given his fare.

“Why have you brought me here?” Henriksen said dully. 

“Oh, you know, just wandering around”, Sherlock said airily, with a nonchalance that was several miles beyond believable. 

I stared at him suspiciously. He crossed the road to where a warehouse with grimy windows backed onto the road, with a stack of boxes by one of the windows. 

“I wonder what could _possibly_ be in here?” he said airily.

He clambered up on the boxes and peered through the window, though I doubted that he could see much. He came down with a smile, however.

“Dear me, chief-inspector”, he said, far too innocently. “It seems like there are people inside this building who are engaged in the printing of forged bank-notes. How very dreadful. I think that you should call for back-up at once.”

His voice was flatter than East Anglia. Henriksen looked at him suspiciously, and I was not the least bit surprised. 

“One of you could go to the nearest telegraph office”, he suggested. 

“We could”, Sherlock agreed. “Or we could call for help, and hope that a spare police officer appears out of thin air.” He cupped his hands round his mouth. “Help.”

In terms of calls for help, that ranked somewhere below pathetic; I barely heard him from four feet away. Yet despite that, Sergeant Baldur promptly emerged from the nearby alley. 

“We heard your call for help, sir”, he said, with what was a commendably straight face. “By a wonderful stroke of great fortune, I happen to have eight officers, five round the front of this edifice, and three at the only other exit. Let's get 'em!”

He blew hard on his whistle, and there was the sound of a door being smashed in from somewhere nearby. Moments later, a large and untidily-dressed man burst through the door we had been standing by and ran straight into a still stunned Henriksen, Sergeant Baldur easily slipping the cuffs on the escapee. The chief-inspector smiled.

“Well well, Jimmy Carr!” he grinned. “Fancy meeting you here! And I bet Bert and Alf aren't far away!”

“Want a lawyer!” the thug groused. “And I 'aint saying nothin'!”

“Good idea”, the sergeant smiled. “Save your explanation about the presses and all those fake notes for the judge - they don't get many good laughs in their line of work!”

He hustled the man back through the door he had entered by, and threw him down to lie with his confederates, one of whom was already being manhandled out to the waiting police-van that we could see through the open main door. 

“Amazing!” Sherlock said flatly. “Chief-Inspector Henriksen, you and Sergeant Baldur seem to have found and apprehended the forgers who have been polluting the tills of London in recent times. I am sure that your superiors will be _incredibly_ grateful that you had the amazing foresight to act on the _anonymous_ tip-off that you received today. How exceedingly fortunate that there are police officers like you whom us simple members of the public can trust.”

He stared meaningfully at the chief-inspector, who chuckled.

“Thank God that you were never a criminal!” he laughed. “London would have been yours for the taking!”

+~+~+

It says something for the modern age that the capture of the Conk-Singleton forgers was in the London paper that I read that same afternoon, as Sherlock and I went to see Colonel Bradford, then still Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service. There was a tall and somewhat reedy blond fellow in the office with him, a superintendent from his markings, who looked less than thrilled to see us. Probably another suit who thought that consulting detectives were the devil's work, I thought acidly.

“I am fortunate in that I know that I can _always_ trust people like Chief-Inspector Henriksen”, Sherlock said with a smile. “I shall miss him, though at least he steps down on a high note.”

“Well, we shall certainly give him the send-off he deserves”, the colonel said. “Oh, I should have introduced you; this is Superintendent Miles Carton. Was there something you particularly wished to see us about, Mr. Holmes? You did request his presence here.”

I caught what was definitely a faint flicker of alarm on the superintendent's face.

“I am rather afraid that there was”, Sherlock said, his tone notably changing. “It is indeed the most welcome news that _some_ dangerous criminals have been removed from the streets today – but dangerous criminals come in all shapes and sizes, and strange disguises. Do they not, superintendent?”

His voice had definitely acquired a menacing tone. The tall policeman looked at him warily.

“I.... suppose so, sir”, he said. 

“For example”, Sherlock said, “there was the curious case of why poor Henriksen was, as you say in your line of work, 'fitted up'. A very thorough job, but one which, I am sad to say, may cause the force no end of problems in the days to come.”

“Fitted up?” the colonel asked. “I do not understand. What do you mean?”

“I am regrettably compelled to somewhat mar your moment of triumph, colonel”, Sherlock said. “You see, you have a major problem at one of your stations, and you are about to lose a whole host of officers as a result.”

“What? Where?”

“When Henriksen was attacked on his way back from Marlow to his office”, Sherlock said, “I asked myself that old legal question. _Cui bono?_ \- who benefits? Three chief-inspectors stood to gain promotion if Henriksen was forced out when he was; six months' delay, and the service would have had time to again seek possible candidates from elsewhere. I focussed immediately on Mr. Jason Pollock at Paddington, because his was the only patch through which Henriksen's journey would have taken him. And because a certain reliable source of mine told me that that was where the message that sent Henriksen to Marlow was 'handed in'.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” the superintendent said shortly. “Pollock is a good man.”

“You should know”, Sherlock said quietly. _“He is your nephew.”_

The colonel slowly turned and looked at the superintendent. It was not a nice look.

“Miles”, he said slowly, “the rules about divulging familial relations within the force are crystal clear. _Is_ Pollock your nephew?”

“He is the son of the superintendent's older brother Martin, and changed his name by deed poll before entering the service”, Sherlock said. “But I am sorry to say, colonel, that it gets much, much worse than the non-divulging of blood ties.”

“Go on”, the colonel said heavily, still eyeing his superintendent balefully. 

“Chief-Inspector Pollock has, I am told, his own little clique of constables at the station”, Sherlock said. “Four of them - disguised of course - lay in wait for Henriksen outside Paddington Station, knowing as many in the force do that he eschews the underground. That in itself was suspicious; it implied that the attack would take place in a busy area where, by a most fortunate coincidence, there were no police officers nearby. It was their singular misfortune however that one of them, who was meant merely to run off with the brief-case, was caught by my friend for a moment, and chose to lash out with his truncheon.”

He took a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket.

“There are the names of the officers involved”, he said. 

“How did you find this out?” the colonel demanded, his eyes bulging.

“We all have our secrets, colonel”, Sherlock smiled. “Do we not, superintendent?”

Superintendent Carton baulked. “What?” he said, pushing his hair back out of his eyes.

“I spoke with Mrs. Henriksen”, Sherlock said. “You were the person who called at her house, not knowing that she was next door and heard you threaten both her husband and her family. She saw you leave, and the neighbour she was with also identified you from a set of pictures that I had shown to her. And you were the person who started those malicious rumours about my friend.”

“Miles!” the colonel snapped. Sherlock sat back in his chair.

“I am sure, of course, that the Metropolitan Police Service, like all large organizations, would prefer this matter to just go away”, he said. “Any sort of publicity is going to detract from the rosy glow that the public is feeling right now, with the guarantee that the pound in their wallets really is a pound. It is all rather ironic, really?”

“Ironic?” the colonel asked. “How, pray?”

“That this story started with someone looking as if they were about to be forced to resign from the police service, and it ends with someone actually resigning. Six people, if we include the station doctor, whose name you may also have noted on that list.”

Sherlock stared pointedly across the table at the two men.

“On my desk, by four”, the colonel said grimly.

The superintendent nodded, gave us both a hate-filled glare and left. 

+~+~+

“To coin a Herculean metaphor, it went from the Hydra to the Augean Stables”, I remarked, as we slumped into our chairs a few days later in the warmth of our Baker Street rooms.

“How so?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, you destroyed the Hydra like Hercules, finding and removing the original head”, I said. “But like the Augean Stables, you prevented the papers from saying what they were going to about Henriksen by sweeping it all away with the twin rivers of Truth and Justice.”

He just stared at me.

“I _am_ educated”, I said stiffly.

“But I love you anyway!” he grinned.

Memo to self: keep something handy to throw at Sherlock for when he is being even more... Sherlockian than usual. 

+~+~+

Next, all that glisters is not Gold.


End file.
